


A Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

by stele3



Series: Teatime [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post TW series 2 and Doctor Who series 3. Jack comes back, and Ianto takes care of him. Shameless hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

When Jack comes back, Ianto isn't expecting it. To the point, he doesn't think Jack will return at all, but even in his hopeful fantasies, he never dreamed of trudging home in the wee hours of morning to find his former (or current – he's not exactly sure how long it takes for a missing Torchwood supervisor to be pronounced dead) employer sitting in the middle of his bed, fully-clothed, with his shoes on.

It's been a long day at work, a long day of a long week of a long month. Torchwood headquarters has practically overflowed, between Jack's disappearance, some truly bizarre fluctuations in the Rift ("Almost as if something's draining it," Tosh said, puzzled), and that strange Harold Saxon business. Ianto's still not clear what happened, only that the Prime Minister of Great Britain had identified himself as an alien, screamed, " _Here come the drums!_ " and then… nothing. Transmission had cut out, and nothing else.

They'd been in the Himalayas, chasing what turned out to be an elaborately-constructed dead end; Owen had practically thrown them all back on a plane and homeward, but England had been as quiet and peaceful as all those mountain peaks, holding up the sky. For two weeks the entire seaboard had been on high alert, everyone waiting for the other foot to drop and the sky to open up. Every time a Weevil popped up or they got reports of bright lights in the sky, Owen instituted a lockdown; the mantle of command didn't suit him well and he strained under it, irritable and anxious and over-protective of his team.

A bit like Jack, actually.

Though nothing like the Jack that sits in the middle of Ianto's bed, reading a book. Ianto can only hope that it's not one of those trashy romances that he inherited when his mum died and hasn't had the heart to throw out yet. 

"Good evening," Jack says solemnly. "Or morning, I suppose."

The plastic bag containing dinner dangles awkwardly from Ianto's fingers; he sets it down on the floor and straightens. He knows he's staring, forgetting all his manners. "Jack?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

A faint, curling smile, painful in its sadness. "No."

Ianto moves forward, cautiously circling the bed and studying Jack for wounds or bloodstains. There's nothing, of course, but that doesn't mean anything anymore. He's seen Jack's body put itself back together from the worst things imaginable, bullets to the head and massive Apocalyptic creatures of legend.

Jack lets him look, the book spread out over his lap. It's definitely one of the romances and Ianto flushes, gives in to propriety to cover his embarrassment: he comes to the edge of the bed and undoes the laces of Jack's boots. Quick and efficient, one after the other. Jack lets him do all that, too, patient and smiling a little again. It makes Ianto's heart pinch and he tugs Jack's boots off roughly. "Where have you been? We've all been looking everywhere for you."

Jack looks away, closes the book and stares at the gaudy cover. "I heard you were all in the Himalayas," he says without looking up.

"Yes. The Prime Minister – "

Pain twists Jack's face quickly, flash like the dying flare of a light bulb. "Do you want coffee?" he asks, his voice muffled.

Ianto sets the boots down beside the bed. "I'll make it."

"Ianto – " Jack cuts off and presses his lips together. Then he sets the book aside, swings his feet over the side, and pads his barefoot way into the kitchen.

Ianto slips the unraveled tie from around his neck, leaves it and his jacket flung over a chair. Cups clink distantly and he leaves his shoes beside Jack's boots to join him in the kitchen and nudge him away from the kettle. "Leave a man his domain, sir, and leave the teaboy his coffee."

This time Jack's smile has a bit more substance. He leans back against the kitchen counter, heels of his palms rested on its flat surface. "So sorry, didn't mean to intrude."

"Could have fooled me. Did you pick the lock on the door?"

"No. Teleported in."

Ianto almost turns, but catches himself and frowns at the chipped mugs. "You're taking the piss."

"No, I'm not," Jack says in a low voice, intimate in the small kitchen. 

The sound of it turns hot and tight in Ianto's stomach; he swallows and sets the spoons on the counter, turns. "Take your coat?"

Jack's smile deepens a bit, even as he peels his big broad coat off his shoulders and hands it over. Underneath, his shirt looks rumpled, but unharmed.

It's not a comfort: of all people, Ianto knows just how easily wounds can be hidden. "What happened to you?" he asks before he can think better of it.

The same look of numb agony washes into Jack's face, relentless like a wave and eddying in his features; he closes his eyes.

Ianto swallows again, furious with himself, and lays Jack's coat across the empty dining table. Jack's eyes stay closed and he stands absolutely still while Ianto peels his suspenders down, unbuttons the front of his blue shirt and his sleeves, pulls the hem out of his slacks and eases the whole shirt down. It goes beside the coat, neatly folded.

Jack stands in his kitchen, his hands hanging at his sides. "Ianto – " He hesitates again, then asks softly, pleading, "How long have I been gone?"

Ianto looks at Jack's dark hair, the healthy pink of his skin. "A month."

The corner of Jack's wide mouth tightens, not a smile and not a frown. "Strange thing, time travel. Avoid it if you can. I've been gone for more than a year," he adds, almost as an afterthought, "though you won't remember it."

The mechanism for surprise has long since stopped working inside Ianto's brain. "Where were you?"

"He had me," Jack whispers, pained and bleak under the sound of boiling water. "He flew all of your bodies in from the Himalayas, just to show me."

It's impossible not to touch him when he sounds like that, and Ianto awkwardly lays his hand on Jack's arm, just above the elbow, rubs a thumb into the soft crook. He's always felt so presumptuous, putting his hands on Jack, like he's bumbled into a story that has no place for him. 

Jack shakes his head a little, eyes still closed. "How are the others?"

This, thankfully, feels more comfortable; a status report. "Owen's been in charge since you – well, anyway, he's done all right. Not terrible, anyway, the place hasn't blown up yet. He and Gwen have been looking for you nonstop, got all kinds of theories. Tosh is really the one who's held things together, done the usual work, looked after the Rift."

Bit by bit, Jack's face loses its tightness. The kettle starts to whine and he opens his eyes, smiles. "A little late for coffee."

Ianto's stomach does another slow rollover.

They don't do anything more than lie together, tucked side-by-side into Ianto's sagging bed with the covers pulled up to their chins. Ianto spends the first half hour trying to decide whether he should touch Jack, if Jack's waiting for him to initiate and getting irritated that Ianto isn't doing anything, until Jack sleepily turns his cheek against Ianto's shoulder and begins to snore quietly.

Ianto relaxes and follows Jack into sleep.

-o-

Ianto calls in sick to work the next day, not at all an outlandish claim: they've all run themselves ragged. Spending the whole morning and afternoon in bed with Jack seems like a pleasant option, until he looks around in the light of day and sees last night's dinner still sitting in its bag by the door, the dirty dishes piled by his computer, the perfectly-visible array of romance novels. 

After a hearty round of cleaning, he finally makes that pot of coffee from last night and draws up a chair beside the bed. He knows he should call the others, put their minds to rest; but something stops him. Jack looks so impossibly tired… and Ianto doesn't really _want_ the others to know yet. All the windows and doors are shut up tight, it's just him and Jack inside his small flat, in their own little world. It won't last, but while it does he's damned well going to enjoy it.

Jack sighs, weary and hurt, and opens his eyes. They settle quickly on Ianto and he holds still under them until the uncertainty fades. "Good morning," he says, smiling with a touch of cheek. "Or afternoon, I suppose."

An answering smile brushes across Jack's mouth and he sits up slowly. Muscles move underneath the shoulders of his white undershirt and Ianto watches them, intent. "Is there more of that?" he asks, indicating the coffee.

Ianto hands over the mug wordlessly and watches Jack inhale the steam. He's always been sensitive to smells, loves lemon and peaches and curry. "Mmm. Mocha Java."

"Good for what ails you." When Jack cracks an eye open, Ianto amends, "Most things."

Another smile and then Jack drains the cup in one go. "Been so long since I've had a good cup."

"A year without coffee? That's torture."

Jack holds the cup in both his hands and looks down into it, like he's reading the future. Or maybe he already knows it; Ianto doesn't know, this isn't his story. He's just looking in on it, and he feels a sudden, familiar pang of loneliness, of feeling left out from some breathless miracle that's unfolding before him, seen and heard and never understood.

There are things inside Jack's head full of light and sorrow and endless stars, and Ianto will never get to share them. He's the teaboy, he's mortal, he belongs squarely to his own time with his little flat and his chipped mugs.

Then Jack looks up at him sideways, eyes slanted and sparkling. Ianto happily loses his train of thought: when Jack reaches out to yank at the worn knee of his jeans, Ianto slides easily back into bed.


End file.
